Sunday Forgotten Realms

A campaign inspired by LFR

Adventure Log 00

The start of something grand

31

MAR/12

The year is 1469 by Dale Reckoning, the Year of Splendors Burning. You are all between eight and 10 years old and have grown up together in the town of Loudwater. Your lives so far have not exactly been hard, but they have been just challenging enough to cause you to mature more quickly than others your age who lived more privileged lives. Your little clique is well-known in town as being good-hearted, if occasionally mischievous, and this reputation has gotten you out of one or two major scrapes with the local police.

A couple of weeks after the Spring Equinox, the lot of you are hanging out together in the courtyard between the southern set of apartments near the well, planning out what you will do when Greengrass comes in just under a month. Greengrass is an anual celebration of the first day of Spring where, traditionally, the wealthier people bring out flowers to hand to the less wealthy, who either wear them or throw them on the ground to encourage the deities to usher in the summer. In Loudwater, the holiday is a bit of a to-do, and none of you want to be unprepared for the festivities. Plans are hatched to raid the countryside for flowers.

Suddenly, an armored figure appears before you in a flash of blue flame. He stands no less than seven feet tall and carries a sword half again his height across his back. In his left hand is a shield that covers most of his form which glitters brilliantly in the reflection of the sun. The man lifts his visor with his right hand, revealing dark, pupil-less eyes that sparkle with the light of infinite stars.

You find you have no words to answer this strange figure, and before you are able to gather your thoughts, the armored man continues as though he has heard a response to his words, “Believe me or not, it does not matter.” He seems genuinely saddened at this, but his demeanor bespeaks a man resolved towards a particular course of action. “I have no choice but to answer your challenge, my dear and cherished friend. May my actions be forgiven!”

At this, the figure lowers his visor, draws his sword, and attacks.

Clearly more than a match for you all, the figure’s obvious confusion is the only thing that prevents it from cleaving your young bodies in twain. Your blasts of arcane energies ping against its armor pitifully, as though you were merely throwing pebbles at an elephant. Just as all hope seems lost, you notice the cart in the courtyard is filled with alchemical potions of healing! While this fortunate discovery is enough to prevent you from being slaughtered outright, it is still a frantic battle to keep your assailant occupied and off-balance while praying someone comes to your aid.

As the figure raises its sword high to dispatch the injured Ignis, Curuvar the Brazen rushes onto the scene and shoots a powerful blast of magic at the armored giant. The spell flies true, striking its target full in the back with the weight of a charging hippogriff. It drops to its knees in front of Ignis, now staring him full in the face. The figure lifts his visor once more and gazes into the genasi’s soul.

“Torm,” he says as though in a trance, “I entrust my followers to you. Keep them well, dear friend.” With these last words, he coughs, hacking up blood and splattering it about Ignis’ face and clothing. As the genasi reflexively moves to wipe his eyes, the figure combusts in the same blue flame that brought him before you all earlier. Quickly, you dodge out of the way of the explosion.

Nothing of the combatant is left, and the afternoon air hangs silently for a long moment as the lot of you struggle to comprehend what you have just done.

“We’ve killed a god,” Ignis says in a voice too stunned to be anything other than matter-of-fact.

“You’ve destroyed my potions!” answers Curuvar.
~
Come Greengrass, every door in Loudwater finds itself covered in bright red and orange flowers, casting the illusion the town is burning in the afternoon sun. It is a splendid sight to behold, and no one bothers to discover the culprits.

Spring was finally coming to Loudwater. The snow melt from the Star Mounts was swelling the nearby Greyflow river. Some of the songbirds were already returning, filling the air with their melodies, and the forests nearby were again filling out with green.
In the town itself, gathered around a well, four children discussed their plans for the upcoming festival of Greengrass.
“Coming up with good pranks is hard,” said Ignis Flamman the Third, his flaming mane slumping dejectedly about his shoulders. The Genasi child was ten, and as he sat on the rim of the courtyard well, his feet barely brushed the cracked paving stones.
“We’ve gotta top the merchant’s cart. People were talking about that for weeks,” Llewellen said. She was only eight, but had decided she was part of their group – and they’d had no choice but to accept her. Besides, it was never easy finding willing targets of teasing and occasional mayhem.
Sidrynn kicked at a tuft of grass that had grown between two of the stained flagstones. Being the oldest, he was effectively the group leader, and knew that if he didn’t come through with the best prank they’d ever pulled, their group would be finished.
“Well, we’ve been around for this festival before. What’s the biggest thing about it?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
However, the man-sized golem, Van, spoke up from where he was watching the water in the well. “Flowers,” he said, “and giving them to people.”
“Hey, yeah,” Sidrynn said. “The rich people buy flowers from all over, and give them to anyone they think is poor. Well, what happens if we give flowers to all the rich people?”
“What, so they think that we think we’re richer than them?” Ignis asked.
“Yeah. Or, better yet, give them to everyone in town. But how do we do it without them knowing it was us?” Concerned, as ever, with the concept of anonymous pranks, he was trying to think up a way they could avoid notice.
“What if we wore masks?” Llewellen asked.
“Or did it at night?” was Ignis’ contribution.
“Wait a second,” Sidrynn said, before his allies could get too worked up. “I’ve got it. Ten is a big age for us, so we need to change things up.” Seeing the look in the younger girl’s eyes, he amended it for Llewellen’s sake. “Eight is pretty important too. And Van, you’re going to be three this year. I think it’s time to reveal ourselves as the Sons of Flame!”
Silence greeted his pronouncement. That was the name they used to refer to themselves; nobody else in town knew it, or so they thought. “Van, I know you’ve been reading the herbology books this week. Do you remember any flowers that can burn?”
Van thought silently, sifting through his eidetic memory. “Three species fit your question. One of the flowers, the Brimweed, grows in the heart of volcanoes, and is frequently found smouldering. It releases a sulfurous odor constantly, and withers if it does not have a constant source of heat.
“The second, the Emberflower, has a bud like a common iris, a dark stem, and bright red and orange petals. It is said to look like a torch.
“The third, a common flower known as Safflower, has thin red and orange petals, but excretes an oil that is flammable, and yet only burns at low temperatures.”
“That third one, now,” Sidrynn said. “Burns only at low temperatures? So if it were placed next to wood, it wouldn’t ignite it?”
“No,” Van said. “The most it would do is scorch, or darken from smoke. It wouldn’t be hot enough for the wood to combust.”
“Well, then, folks, I have an idea. What if we get some of these safflowers, and pin them up on everyone’s doorframe? And then light them on fire, so they burn?” asked Sidrynn, who already knew the plan was a winner.
Just before he had finished congratulating himself in his mind, the silence in the courtyard was rent by a torrent of blue flames in one corner. The children cried out and hid behind the well, with the golem Van merely standing and turning to confront the spectacle.
As the blue flames subsided, a man stood before them. He stood a head taller than Van, and was bedecked in full plate armor. He bore strapped to his back a sword larger than any of the children, and a tower shield of bright steel.
The figure lifted the visor on his plate helm to reveal a gaunt, chalky face tinged with blue, and empty black eyes. Staring towards the children, and yet not looking at any of them, he spoke in a resonant, eerie voice.
“Tyr,” he said, “I have no inclinations towards your love, Tymora.”
Sidrynn was struck by how odd this pronouncement seemed – who was this man, how did he get here, and why was he invoking the names of the gods in a familiar fashion? And there was something about that blue flame that felt very familiar, and yet wrong.
The figure spoke again. “Believe me or not, it does not matter.” It seemed to be carrying on a conversation, though the friends could only hear his half.
Suddenly, Sidrynn remembered the blue fire – it was the hallmark of the Spellplague, the magical apocalypse that had struck the continent of Toril and beyond, when the god of Murder struck down the goddess of Magic. “Stay away from it if you can, guys – that man’s touched by Spellplague!”
Lowering his visor, he replied again. “I have no choice but to answer your challenge, my dear and cherished friend. May my actions be forgiven!”
The figure charged towards the group, drawing his sword as he ran. The three children tumbled out of the way, while Van stood still, awaiting commands. “Run, Van!” Sidrynn shouted, but not before the golem took a glancing slash across his chestpiece.
Seeing the golem come under attack, Sidrynn halted in mid-flee behind a wooden cart that had been left in the courtyard. “Curuvar, come quickly! Some man is attacking us!”
When his mentor did not arrive, he realized he needed to take action. Pushing up the sleeves of his robe, he drew the magic of fire from deep within himself. He called upon all the reserves he dared, knowing it was going to wear him out, but determined to protect his friend.
A ball of energy formed between his hands, glinting with silver and flame. Seeing it take shape, he hurled it at the mysterious figure, and it burst across its left arm, drawn back for another swing.
“Tyr!” it snarled, and then confusion marred its voice. “What trickery… It matters not! I will not fall for it!”
With that, the figure ignored Van, and came charging across the flagstones towards Sidrynn. The boy barely sidestepped a heavy swing that clanged against the cobblestones, but didn’t see the shield until it slammed into him, sending his small body sprawling.
Sidrynn blacked out, but only for a moment, woken when a sweet liquid was poured into his mouth. He recognized it in a detached fashion as a healing potion, which reminded him that he’d been injured in a battle. His eyes snapped open to see the iron face of Van, who had just administered the potion.
“Good thinking, Van – where did it come from?” he asked.
The golem jerked his head in the direction of a wooden cart Sidrynn had crouched behind. Van left Sidrynn to stand on his own, rushing to the aid of Ignis, who was barely fending off the great slashes with his own wooden sword.
Sidrynn stuffed a few healing potions into his pocket with his free hand, as he once more called forth flames. He managed to distract the armored figure into turning from the beleaguered Ignis, and realized as the giant came charging towards him again what a monumentally stupid idea it had been.
He dived under the cart just as the sword split the air where his head had been, rolling away from the great steel boots. They kicked halfheartedly, and then turned to run away. After catching his breath quickly, he stuck his head out from under to see the figure embroiled in battle with both Ignis and Llewellen.
Blasting away with more fire and arcane energy, he was too focused to make much of the conversation – other than to note that the figure seemed to think of itself as Torm, and that Llewellen seemed to be distracting him by pretending to be Tymora.
He saw Ignis take a savage slash, and be driven to one knee; as the figure raised his sword to finish his injured opponent, Sidrynn’s mentor Curuvar charged around the corner of the building, his robes and beard flapping from his haste. Seeing a child in danger, he reacted swiftly, blasting a wave of force from the end of his raven-tipped staff.
It struck the figure solidly in the back, knocking him to the ground. All the fight left him; he said something Sidrynn couldn’t make out, and then exploded in blood and blue fire. Ignis had already fallen to the ground, and was rolling away; Llewellen had ducked behind a nearby rain barrel. As he finally began to relax, he heard Curuvar suck in a deep breath. “By Mystra’s lost spell! What happened to my healing potions!”